Lacuna
by MissPaper
Summary: What difference can one action make in the unbroken course of events? What about one person? Itachi Uchiha believes himself in command of his own future- but when has that ever been true? His destiny will be forever changed by the intervention of fate. And naturally- a girl. (This story is being overhauled and is considered under construction)


**Hello to all my Lacuna followers. **

**It has certainly been a while, hasn't it? Sorry for the _extremely_ long time between updates. But as I warned, the story didn't hold my interest for very long, especially since I wasn't taking very much time to think about where I might want it to go. Thus, I dug myself into a bit of a giant plot hole. And writer's block like no other. **

**I'm in a very different state of mind now in comparison to when I began Lacuna nearly a year ago. Back then it was a hasty way to pass the time while I waited on other things in my life. Now, I think of it very differently and I'd like to devote the time and effort to it that it truly deserves. That being said, updates are not going to happen very quickly. I've got a new job and house and entire school track so it may yet end up left alone for some time again. But not forgotten. **

**So you all might have noticed that I've taken down all the past chapters detailing Mayu and Itachi's childhood adventures. Like I said in the new summary, I am completely overhauling the story. Mayu will still be my main character, and the story will revolve primarily around her interaction- and in some cases, intervention- in Itachi's life. But the difference is going to be in my handling of her character, and her role as an inter-dimensional traveler. **

**Several of my past reviewers made comments about the oddity of having a fully adult mind in a child's body and how she reacted around Itachi based on that, as strange. And after careful consideration I realized that my original idea of 'Mayu' as a whole was not coming across the way I had anticipated. So I'm going to be making significant changes to my plans for her, and for the story as a whole. **

**So for those of you still sticking with me- thankyouthankyouthankyou, you're all wonderful! Updates won't come at lightning speed like last time, but hopefully we will all get a better story because of it.**

**In the meantime- have a Prologue!**

**Sincerely****,**

**Ms.P **

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><p>Prologue<p>

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><p>Two souls meet at the crossroads.<p>

One is stained with blood, torn to pieces and dripping black. It staggers along in the miasma building a path before it. Wandering aimlessly without purpose. How many times has it been torn apart and rebuilt? How many masks has it had to wear and how many heartbeats has it had to silence? This soul is crippled with pain and drowning in sorrow, and yet it has finally passed from its life with a sense of honor. It was able to make a difference- but never able to atone. And how could it possibly want to, after all the damage it had done?

Black flecks drip behind it as the path grows long, the afterlife is far beyond its reach now. The world surrounding is much different than the one it was used to. The horizon is non existent and all events occur simultaneously in the vast emptiness abounding. Twinkling lights dot the fluid fabric of this place, maybe they are stars- or perhaps other lost souls wandering their own winding paths.

It is the loneliness that is the most surprising, in the end. All the things this soul looks back on that have led to its death, and the loneliness is the one that is truly poignant. This yawning chasm of space is only a reminder of all the things it missed, of the choices that led it so far astray. It wonders, no- it _knows_ the things it could have done differently.

The soul had led a life of manipulation, careful illusions sustained by bloodshed and festering hate. The path to peace is often a bloody one, it had always reasoned. But looking back now- did that have to be true? All the people that lay in ashes by the soul's own hands, were they simply casualties of the great _war_ for _peace_? Thoughts like this plagued it in its last hours, and now they mattered more than ever. If only for the reason that there was nothing else to do but wonder.

Before the forces of falsehood, truth retreats but never dies, because truth is reality which continues to exist. And though it is great to find the truth, it is greater still to make it known, for truth that flowers in the light, closes its petals with the night. Now the night is never ending, and the light is brighter than ever. The truth has made itself known to the soul, and now...it no longer seems to matter. Musings to bask in the incandescence surrounding it, the soul supposed.

Was there not supposed to be respite in the next life? The soul had been here before, but not truly. It doesn't remember, but it has the patchwork of scars to prove the passage that was taken through the veil of death and back again.

Gently, gently there is no going from one life to the next. As words written on a puff of smoke are the demands of this soul onto the cosmos, and the universe has certainly never been beholden to shield it against destruction.

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><p>And the second soul too, wanders.<p>

This soul is young. Ended in a moment of frailty with the blush of youth still lingering on pallid cheeks it finds itself lost. There is no room to wallow because there was no room to act. Silence prevailed in a life that should have been so loud. And yet it was only seen through panes of glass.

This soul is a droplet of water, rippling out and out and out. Reaching into the abyss and so ignorant of what might call back. What regrets could it have? Perhaps the regret of failing to bloom. Held back by the constraints of its own mortality the soul walks, searching and searching for something that can never be found. A life wasted in plush sheets trapped in sterilized walls.

Like a wilted flower there was only a life of watching others run in the sun. The soul had sat back, confined to a bed or a chair and wishing- dreaming that one day it would join them. So many had spoken empty words, so many had handed it slips of paper with garbled letters and false promises. Tubes and needles and monitors, all mingling into an eerie choir of dissonant sickness.

Gently it went from that life of slow decay and struggle- just like falling asleep. Foggy visions of tears and warmth pervade the dream like lethargy of this after-life. It will be missed. The soul weeps for lost opportunities, for pain and love and warmth and sadness. All these things it never got to have ripped away from its reaching fingers.

The cosmos stretch wide, the stars and novae bright beyond comprehension so desperate to be had, and the soul wonders- why wasn't there more? Why was it so unfairly plucked from that life and thrown out like a failed version of a better self?

So the two walk on their forming paths, mindlessly pondering the events that have culminated their existences in this strange, empty and stiflingly full place. Both wonder if there is an end- both wonder if they want there to be. But still, all they have ever known is progression of events and being without it is strange and terrifying. What is next for these two?

The answer is given in the form of a red string is drawing taught.

Fate is often woven in dreams and time. How fitting that it should take the corporeal form of such things here, and now.

Formless mass once again takes form as the string draws across space and time and dimension, and simultaneously the souls look down to find a scarlet length of yarn tied around their smallest finger.

The string is an oddity, a certainty in a land of shifting chance and boundless energies. So it is followed. The paths change and the souls wander closer to each other, last moments flashing through the endless skies as they draw closer.

_A great battle in a stormy valley, an army clashing with less than a dozen enemies. The free world is at stake and the moon cannot be allowed to rise. His time is long up and passed but he can still do this. He can still make up for his mistakes. He can still manipulate the path of the very world itself- if only to change the fate of one man._

The second soul wonders at this. These solid images burning themselves into the event horizon are burning themselves into the raw essence of the soul itself. Each choice, the taste of blood, the smell of blossoms, the sight of a brother's smile...all of it is recorded and branded to the vulnerable marrow of this bright being.

_The machines begin to slow their incessant sounds, that at least is a relief. The world seems to fall into a hush, holding its breath and waiting to hear those famous last words. She wants to wonder at what could have been one last time- but she simply can't muster the energy past her failing heart. _

A feeling of second hand lethargy permeates the first soul at this. It's black fluid trail feeling heavier than ever. What a hopeless wash of emotion, it feels like abandoned dreams.

The two souls brush against one another, and the event horizon collapses.

Born again, reincarnation! The souls are ripped apart though the string binding them together holds strong. Each one is brought to bear, the sins and virtue and experience wiped clean in a flash of light and sound. A chorus reaches a fever pitch at the same time as a building drum beat begins its chance, the first soul is unaware, thrown into this looping pattern of insanity and destined to make the same mistakes over and over reliving the worst choices in infamy that will span across dimensions in infinite forms and myth.

The second soul, however, already knows the story. It's branded into its very being. The two tumble through time and space streaking across the cosmos, bound together and crashing apart all at once. Neither one can think, and they no longer know how to. Little specks of energy that mingle like shooting stars across the night sky. Somewhere, someone points, and smiles.

Death is only the beginning, it's said. Perhaps in the special case of these two souls- death is only a formality.

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><p><strong>Thank you as always for reading!<strong>


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